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I recently finished reading Julian Glover's excellent biography of Thomas Telford, the great British engineer, and noticed that Langholm featured heavily. Not only was this little town in the Scottish borders the place where Telford was born and served his apprenticeship, the whole area seems to be infused with history - great engineers aside, we have poets, statesmen, soldiers, explorers. There seems to have been something in the air in this neck of the woods, and I wanted to experience it for myself. Train to Carlisle, bus to Langholm, here we go.
Langholm is surrounded by hills. Not mountains. Just hills. Lovely mini Donalds, in a way. Hills as far as the eye can see. There's a whole bunch of hills that reach or exceed 300m, and I decided to have a stab at Mid Hill, and see where my fancy took me. There's safety on low hills, and safety breeds nonchalance.
I plodded straight out of New Langholm and up to Meikleholm Hill - a solid plod up a steep hillside, where views soon unfolded, and thighs soon burned. From here it was very Donald-ish - following slightly boggy fences over rolling hills. Soon I arrived at Mid Hill, and I felt like I'd just plodded up an Ochil Law. Or perhaps a mini Crianlarich Ben More. In any case, I took a break. Hello, Eskdale, hello Mr Telford.
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
Onwards to Black Knowe, where some frisky cattle urged me westwards, and I tried to work out what on earth my plan was. Craig Hill? Nah, do that later. Let's go along to Craighope Head, then drop down into the cleugh. Drop down, he says. Nobody walks this way, so it was full Jurassic Park for the fern-negotiating tumble down into the cleugh. Arms above head, very awkward, also very hot and sweaty. Then it was straight up the other side, where eventually I reached another God-given fence and pulled myself up towards the next hill. Craig Wind Farm sits atop Clagberry Hill, and though I missed the trigpoint, I did get some lovely views to the east into Telford country.
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
I toyed with heading to Calkin Rig, the Marilyn that seems to be there for no other reason than to tease hillwalkers who are reliant on public transport, but if I'm honest, I was knackered. There's no 'just' in just walking the little hills around Langholm. I decided to bag the rough and midge-ridden Whitecleuch Fell, then dropped steeply down the fern-covered slopes to the track under Black Knowe.
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
Once on the track, my improvised route took me to a little ford, where I switched back and headed up the steep grassy slopes of Torbeck Hill, and then gained Craig Hill, the hill that eluded me earlier. Gotcha! From here, I trudged south-east down the steep slopes towards Craigcleuch South Lodge (more interesting history, if you get on the old Googler as you hike...), from where it was an easy few km walk along the minor road (why do people drive so aggressively on small country roads?) to Langholm.
I just had time to pop down to the river Esk, where I dipped a toe and watched a man drinking cans of industrial strength cider. Perhaps the same kind of cider the likes of girder-meister Telford imbibed. Alcohol aside, there really is something about this part of the world.
And I love it.
Langholm by
Christopher Watson, on Flickr
